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...No. No, no, no. It wasn't working out at all.
N. Brio sighed as he replaced a test tube in its rack. He gave one last defeated look at the murky contents in an Erlenmeyer flask in his other hand before placing it down among its brethren. His workbench was littered with containers filled with varying amounts of... of...
Failures. There was no other way to put it. All he'd been mixing for the past who-knows-how-many hours were failures. Precious ingredients had gone to waste because of his foolish thinking. Oh, maybe this'll do the trick. Maybe now, just one more try, one more, one more, over and over.
He'd been on edge all night, his focus far away from his reach. Restless energy gnawed at every inch of him; his fingers drummed nonsensical patterns on the table. He felt off—everything felt off. A nauseating anticipation swirled in his stomach. It'd been mercilessly amplifying by the hour, refusing to be soothed by his usual concoctions.
He felt as though something bad was going to happen. That's ridiculous, you're ridiculous, a little imaginary Cortex whispered in his head. He was no soothsayer, but he trusted his gut feelings, even though others—mainly Cortex—brushed them aside.
What could even happen? He grabbed his stack of notes off the table, thumbing through the chicken-scratch nonsense that'd been accumulating through the night as he began pacing. Every piece of equipment in his hideout had been triple-checked; none of his more volatile mixtures had leaked; his mutants had been behaving themselves. He doubted Cortex was up to something. The castle reparations kept his former colleague busy these days.
And then he thought of N. Gin.
The youngest of the three had always been excitable, perhaps to a fault. N. Brio couldn't help reminding Gin to be careful each time they spoke on the phone. They rarely met these days due to the distance between them. Whenever they did, he'd ask to see Gin's hands. Gin would grumble and huff, but he'd still hold out his hands.
Horrifying thoughts and mental images would plague Brio as he'd peel off the gloves. There's going to be missing fingers, he's going to be missing fingers, he's going to be missing them. His imagination sure loved that one. He's going to see metal fingers jutting out of flesh.
But Gin's hands would always be intact. They were a patchwork of scars and healthy skin, sure, but intact. A result of gloves discarded again and again for a steadier grip, to nudge this and that component with a nail. Burns and nicks and explosions had never deterred Gin.
"You have to take c...c-care of them, you wouldn't want to replace them with metal, would you?"
Of course Gin would perk up at that, because this was the same rascal who'd thought an experiment blowing up in his face back in their academy days was cool. It had left Gin half-blind for the rest of a semester. Really, it'd been an outright miracle he hadn't lost an eye. The other students had kept poking at the healing skin, so he'd worn a mask over the injuries.
"Just like the Phantom of the Opera!" Gin had declared.
He'd bounced back from it without a dent to his enthusiasm. The scars he'd sustained were barely noticeable in his adulthood.
It was only natural to worry over his well-being. Defense industry was the last field for someone so reckless. Gin had occasionally come up during those rare, casual conversations he'd had with Cortex. You can't babysit an adult, Cortex used to tell him, it's none of our business if he wants to blow himself up.
For all his dismissing, the faintest flickers of worry had still crossed Cortex's face. Brio had never commented on it.
Doctor Neo Cortex didn't do vulnerability. The people Cortex liked could be counted on one hand—Nina, Gin, and Brio—not that he'd ever admit to it. He didn't bear his heart to anyone. Therapy? Pssh. Cortex vastly preferred making the ghosts of his rough past everyone's else problem. Force them to navigate the minefield that was his mind. It was a guessing game to figure out the dos and dont's. Each step on a mine certainly motivated one to be a quick learner.
Look, the circus is in town, he'd once pointed out to Cortex as they'd been passing through a town on their search for a place to call their own. One moment he'd gestured to the tents, the next that same hand had been left cradling a rapidly bruising cheek.
...Ah. He digressed.
Brio paused by an open window. The cool night air blowing in cleared the acrid stench of his failures, but did very little to calm his nerves. He glanced at his useless notes, huffed, and set the stack face-down on the desk beside him. The blank reverse side of the papers could still be used for further notes.
He looked over at his workbench, gaze riveting on the cellphone near the chemicals. Maybe he should give N. Gin a call, even if it was just for the peace of mind. N. Gin was okay, he was all right, and he would prove it to himself. It was about time he called him, too, it'd been a whi—
And then it began ringing.
Nausea coiled around his stomach in an instant, squeezing. He forced back a lump in his uncomfortably tight throat. He's dead, his mind declared, someone's calling to tell you he's dead.
"Stop it," his voice was barely above a whisper. His trembling hand mindlessly reached up to rub fingers along one of his bolts. Calm down, Brio. No need to get so worked up over the timing of it. Bad news weren't awaiting him. It was probably just Cortex. Yes, that must be it. Just Cortex waiting to go on a tirade for abandoning him.
Just calling him way, way past Cortex's usual bedtime of 11 p.m., deviating from his sleep schedule. The one he'd been adhering to for weeks now to ensure he was up bright and early to care for Nina, who was spending her summer vacation at the castle.
Oh, no.
The ringing continued. He nearly tripped over his feet in his rush to get to the phone. Gin was going to be okay. They were going to be laughing about the timing of his call, how funny it was that they'd thought of each other at the same time, how silly Brio was for worrying over nothing.
He mustered the courage to answer the phone, scrunched his eyes shut, and pressed the clunky brick of a cellphone to his ear. "...Hello?"
It was difficult to describe the sound on the other end of the line.
At first, it brought to mind snoring. The snores turned into water, rushing down a groaning, clogged drain. Water became gravel, scraping across metal, back and forth, back and forth, again and again, the rhythm erratic.
Whatever it was, it sent his fingers prickling with cold. He tightened his grip on the phone.
"N. Gin...?"
Beneath it all was muted dripping. A thud against a hard surface. Soft whistles, rising and falling in pitch. Sobs came in bursts. Sporadic slaps sent liquid splattering on contact.
He couldn't fathom why, but it was enough to send dread washing over him. Anxiety drove a fist into his gut, and he very nearly started retching then and there. His throat worked hard to keep down vomit as he slapped a hand over his mouth. Steady breaths. Steady. Focus. He pushed everything else aside, the thoughts, guesses, all of it, willing himself to let the sounds present themselves.
Gravel broke into gurgling inhales and exhales. Sobs twisted into wet, desperate gasps for air.
It was breathing. Labored, pitiful, ragged breathing.
The realization constricted his chest. His lungs sank claws into his own breaths, struggling to keep them in, equal parts heavy and light and slippery, stay, stay, stay stay stay.
"Nitro," he forced the name out, breathless. "What's— What're you— Are you— Are you okay, please, say something, I need t..t-t-to hear you, please...!"
He swallowed, and kept his eyes shut in focus. His breaths entered and left in a rush, once, twice, thrice, and then—
Rust. The squeak of rust, a second layer of gravel overlapping the first, the grind of shattered bo—
It couldn't possibly be that.
Had to be rust. It was the only plausible explanation, he told himself. The scratch of rust worked in tandem with the whistles, stringing together sounds. Creaks and groans, sighs and moans.
"...B...d...n...I've...g....ng...f..."
His mind blanked. That was speech. Rust and whistles joined in speech. Shredded so raw it was beyond strained. Far from hoarseness. He couldn't—in any way, shape or form—call it human. His free hand immediately tried tightening a bolt with his fingers. What a horrible, disgusting way to think.
"...n't...g...t...t...l...ft..."
An intricate pattern was tapped against hollow metal, accompanied with a hiss. Brio's heart sank in recognition. He'd heard Gin's fingertips tap it out before. He loathed it, he decided at once. Absolutely loathed it. He loathed how Gin hadn't chosen to professionally pursue music, because now they were here, in this situation. To what extent Gin had managed to maim himself this time? He doubted Gin could convey anything cohesive.
Shortness of breath. Judging by the weirdly nasal voice, he had some form of facial injury. Severe throat trauma had to be involved as well. What else?
"...g...th..st...n...m...ad..." More creaking and tapping and hissing.
"G...G-G-Gin, I don't t...t-t-t-think you should be talking"—a shuddering exhale—"you sound seriously hurt."
"...nk...m...ng...ny..."
His words were too brittle to exist. They decayed the second they trickled out, disintegrating before they could make any sense. What faint drips of vowels and consonants Brio could catch weren't enough to scrape together even a hint of what Gin tried to say.
"Please, t...t-t-t-that's enough."
"...l...me...f—"
A dull, stomach-turning crack. The creaking worsened, pained sounds further warping the incoherent vocal sludge. Yet Gin kept pushing on, because that was what he always did, too stubborn and reckless for his own good.
Typical of him. He never knew when to quit. Why couldn't he ever listen.
Irritation flared bright in him. "Shut up!" Brio snapped. The mangled speech faltered. Guilt reared its head, instantly crushed by overwhelming concern before he could apologize for raising his voice. "Please, shut up, it's not doing you any g...g-g-g-good when you speak"—he sucked in a shaky breath through his teeth—"I don't want you t...t-t-t-t—"
A gurgling growl from the other end shut him up in turn; the guttural sound swelled into a frustrated shout which promptly burst into a retch. There was a loud smack against something wet, and once, twice more.
"...Lis...ten..."
Gin was drawing out the syllables now to restore coherence. A thick, fluid-soaked layer still clung to his words.
"...dead...soon..."
"What?"
Ice crawled through Brio's veins, flooding his limbs with a chill. Suddenly weak-kneed, he hunched over his workbench. His free arm braced against its surface, pushing flasks out of the way. Proper lungfuls still eluded him. His head spun. It's not fair. It's not fair, it's always been a matter of time, but this is too soon. How dare you make me listen to you die on me when there's nothing I can do because you're there and I'm here and that's so unfair.
A hard, squelching swallow crackled through the phone. Hopefully just saliva being forced down. Brio couldn't suppress a wince. Or vomit. Even that notion was easier to stomach than the thought of Gin choking on bl—
Violent retching hit his ear. Splattering came on the third heave. Sniffs and sobs and gasps, a sickening, drenched whine he would've never believed a human throat could produce if he wasn't hearing it for himself.
That was when it happened: the contractions struck Brio first. The corners of his mouth twitched. His shoulders shook, and despite himself, he did something horrible.
He started laughing.
Nervous laughter drowned out the withering sounds of his dying friend. Mortification pricked his eyes, tears pushing past lids he kept tightly shut. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, it's not you," he sobbed between laughs, head hanging low as he futilely stuffed a gloved knuckle into his mouth. "I'm not laughing at you, please, I'm so sorry...!"
He sounded—felt—absolutely deranged. What a sickening man he was, unable to keep himself in check at a time like this. His laughter only grew when he caught bits of Gin's own wheezing laugh beneath his own, wishing, needing Gin to know his nerves were to blame.
Metal clattered on the other end, thrown somewhere piece by piece. Drawers were tugged open, rummaged through, and snapped shut. A power drill whined for a second. Tools clinked. The action came to a pause when a coughing fit killed Gin's laughs. A miserable wail followed in its wake, tapering off into a weak whimper.
"Gin." Brio released his knuckle, his laughter finally subsiding. "I..."
Gin cut him off with a startlingly loud hiss, panted, gulped, panted again.
"...good...bye..."
The call ended.
His thoughts halted at the suddenness of it, alone once more. Unreal silence fell heavy over him, as if he’d just awoken from a vivid nightmare, barely straddling the line between wakefulness and sleep. Static suffocated his brain. The creaks and slurred words felt like a distant memory.
He opened his eyes and lowered his phone to numbly stare at it. Dead. He's dead. Gone. Stop it, don't think that. His trembling thumb hovered over the keypad. Button by button, he haltingly entered Gin’s phone number despite having it saved. Each second of stalling helped quelling his stomach, dreading the worst. Muscle memory guided his thumb as he stared into space.
There was no answer. The numbers were punched in again. Nothing. Third try, fourth, fifth, sixth...
Dead. Had to be dead by now. Brio's cellphone fell from his steadily loosening grip and hit the workbench with a clatter. He slapped a shaky hand over his forehead as he blinked away the rest of his tears. No, no, no no, no. Think, Brio, think. It can't end like this.
The rational part of him knew it was too late to do anything.
On the upside, at least Gin didn't blow himself into pieces. He'd often worried there'd be nothing left to bury once Gin wiped himself off the face of earth.
Stop that. He could very well still be alive. Maybe Gin had also sustained a concussion and miscalculated the severity of his injuries in his daze.
The optimist in him eagerly pulled him into its embrace; he leaned into its comforting touch.
Chances were someone was already getting help for Gin. Brio should wait a few days, see if Gin would call again—or if he'd have someone call Brio in his stead. Gin's throat was in no shape for further straining.
Actually, his inner optimist drew him further into the delusion, he should get planning on an overseas trip. He'd rather visit Gin at a hospital than sit here twiddling his thumbs. Or at least attend his funeral in person, his pessimism chimed in.
It'd been ages since he'd left the Wumpa Islands. He had neither vehicles on hand for long-distance travel, nor time and materials to build one.
The mutagen shelf in the corner was woefully lacking in majestic beasts capable of crossing the skies and seas.
Even if he made it overseas, he had no idea where Gin was employed, or where he lived for that matter. Gin had moved elsewhere recently, and Brio hadn't thought to ask for his new address. Idiot, do you ever think, Cortex's voice hissed at him.
He needed to calm down. Allow his breath to even out. His other hand felt around the workbench blindly in search of a wrench to tighten his bolts with.
Growing desperation sent his gaze wandering around his modest lab space, flicking from one object to the other. He needed something, anything that'd be of use. Even a little spark of inspiration would do.
There was nothing useful in sight. His eyes swept past the window, paused, and snapped back to it. The moon sat perfectly centered within a stone window frame. It was fat and pale against the starless night sky, demanding proper acknowledgment. His eyes obediently locked onto it. Strange. What was so compelling about it tonight? It was a plain full moon. Nothing new.
Fat and pale and demanding.
So familiar, so fatheaded and pale yellow and inherently demanding.
The realization dawned on him. Unpleasant at first, but palatable as he let it soak in.
Of course. He lowered his hand from his forehead, slowly, his other hand stilling inches from a wrench. It should've been obvious from the very start. There was only one solution, only one person he could turn to.
He snatched up the phone to rapidly enter a number he'd deleted months ago.
Brio could have gone on with his life without ever contacting Cortex again. But this was about N. Gin. He was glad to commit this necessary evil without a second thought. Cortex could be a real bloodhound when it came to tracking down those who'd slighted him, no matter how petty the offense. If anyone could find Gin, it'd be the man who'd located his childhood bully to frame him for a tax fraud.
He counted seconds as he held the phone to his ear, praying for an answer.
Look who comes crawling back, the imaginary Cortex sneered at him.
The flesh and blood Cortex made an irritated, drowsy sound on the other end.
Brio didn't give him time to kick up a fuss. "Listen!" He recoiled at his own volume, halting for split second before pressing on. "G...G-G-G-Gin might be dead. Or dying. I'm not sure— What? No, this is not an early funeral invitation, let me speak. He c...c-c-c-called"—Brio's face scrunched up for a moment—"and something has happened to him. I don't know what, but it sounded bad, really bad. You should've heard his voice, it was like his t...t-t-throat's ground meat."
Blankets rustled in the background, presumably from Cortex sitting up in his bed.
"I need you to check on him. You're the only one who can, there's no one el— Yes, yes, I'm g...g-going to owe you big time, y— No, I'm not coming over there to get shot, are you c— Yes, this can wait until the morning. I'd be happy to look after Nina, that's f— You're absolutely not going to shoot me when you return!"
Please.
Please, be alive.
Don't you dare leave us so soon.